


The Taming

by Wecanhaveallthree



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 09:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21251360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wecanhaveallthree/pseuds/Wecanhaveallthree
Summary: An Astra Militarum colonel is summoned to give an account of her regiment's actions on Aureus Von's northern front.





	The Taming

**I - IN FROM THE COLD**

To say it was a cold day on Aureus Von was the same as saying that the realms of eternal damnation were hot and the Emperor was glorious. It was always a cold day on Aureus Von, a slow-turning world too far from the light of the system’s weak sun to ever be comfortable for human habitation.

Yet humans were here, as they were in most corners of the galaxy.

Two Chimera personnel carriers sat in ambush positions several metres removed from a cracked ferrocrete road, their low-set turrets angled for the greatest field of fire between the towering boles of ancient, snow-crowned trees. This was a job for heavier vehicles with bigger guns, but in the Astra Militarum, one was often resigned to making do.

It wasn’t like the other side was doing any better, after all. The worst threat the Imperial carriers would face would be repurposed cargo haulers or road freighters packed with starving, desperate rebels. Enemy armour had been decimated in the north by fierce guerilla fighting - there likely wasn’t a proper hull that didn’t bear the aquila on the planet by now.

But you didn’t become a veteran by depending on ‘likely’. And so when movement appeared on the auspex, it was immediately identified for what it was.

‘Control, this is White Five,’ voxed the commander of the leftmost Chimera, a clean-hulled beast stencilled with the name _Burdens_. ‘Movement from grid four-oh. Appears to be an armoured column with infantry outriders. Awaiting orders.’

Several kilometres to the south in a communications bunker heated solely by pict-screens and complaining machinery, the relief operator - standing in for the regular who had come down with a bout of red-lung - picked up the receiver while scanning the map taped to the bunker’s wall for the relevant grid.

‘Stand by,’ the operator replied. ‘I’m looking for troop movements now, will have the regiment for you to hail in a moment.’

Within _Burdens_, the crew shared a glance. If there were Imperial forces north of the firebase, this was the first they’d heard of it, and little APCs tend to know where their bigger brethren were so they could avoid the direct line of fire. Every tanker with combat experience had seen a vehicle just like theirs turned into a death-trap by high explosives. They’d had to listen to their friends scream and burn on the company vox and pray for their souls - and thanked the God-Emperor it hadn’t been them.

The Chimera mounted a heavy bolter in the turret which would make short work of any civilian vehicle or dismounted infantry. Against proper armour, even crude system-local panzers, it’d be no more effective than spitting.

Only one advantage belonged to the APCs: mobility. And that disappeared with every second the distant operator leafed through the unit guide on her desk.

Neither Imperial vehicle needed to discuss the situation. Engines rumbled to life, exhaust pluming white in the frosty air. At low power, in ambush, they might have evaded detection even by sophisticated instruments - but that would have only lasted until whatever force came down the road and made visual contact. And if that force could see the thin-skinned carriers, they could certainly shoot them.

‘We are not, repeat, not equipped to block an armour push,’ voxed _Burdens_. There was martyrdom and there was suicide, and the Emperor did not look kindly on those who threw away His vehicles needlessly. ‘Auspex does not see friend-or-foe. We need an ident, control.’

‘Hold for unit markings and composition,’ was the death-sentence reply. ‘I can’t find any troop movements planned for your grid. No reports of enemy activity in nearby grids. This may be the final rebel push: you need to advise number and type.’

‘We can’t survive making visual contact, control.’

A pause. ‘The Emperor protects, White Five.’

Within a moment, _Burdens_ was on the inter-company channel to its sister vehicle. ‘Tomas, when they crest, run south. I’ll pull into the trees - see if I can’t make them waste time, turn their guns, make it hard for them to retarget before you make it to the bend.’

‘I can’t-’ came the hesitant, wavering voice.

‘That’s an order, son.’

The commander of _Burdens_ cut the system, refusing to hear any further argument. He was proud of his boy. He’d never given the lad preferential treatment, had never coddled him, and yet he’d made it to a command of his carrier. The commander could say - with back straight and pride in his heart - that his command to retreat wasn’t born of sentimentality or nepotism. It was a sincere desire to preserve an experienced and capable officer, one with a bright future ahead.

Looking around at the pinched faces of his familiar crew, the commander couldn’t help the grim smile that touched his lips. Throne, he was proud of all of them. It had been a hell of a ride.

‘It’s been an honour,’ he said. ‘Prepare to address. Try and get on the flank, use the boles, make them work their turrets.’

The auspex pinged, signalling imminent engagement. The other Chimera was already on the ferrocrete, picking up speed. _Burdens_ began to move, treads spitting snow, turret hunting for targets that it could not possibly harm as soon as they became visible.

And then they were there.

They came through the soft mist as wraiths, like spectres from the otherworld sent to seek vengeance on the living. The first was the unmistakable silhouette of a Leman Russ Vanquisher, the muzzle of its battle cannon painted voracious red as it quested for prey, the bloodstained maw of a hunting hound. The flanks of the tank were slashed in whites and greys that made it difficult to look at, fading into the background even under direct observation.

It could have killed both Chimeras before they had any warning at all. There was only one regiment deployed on Aureus Von that boasted that particular flavour of camouflage, and it was Imperial.

They had been out of contact with campaign command for months, and it was they who were the reason the foe had nothing but rusted transports to field in their failing rebellion. _Burdens_’ commander had heard the reports, seen the scratchy kill-tallies -- even come across the remains of supply drops that Imperial Navy had managed to the isolated tankers.

He had half-believed they were a propaganda piece, something to keep morale up in the slogging campaign, a manufactured -- or at least exaggerated -- tale of heroism and ability.

But they were real.

The deep gouges on the other tanks as they growled into view were real, the craters of explosive warheads, the scarring of energy weapons -- they were all real. The hollow eyes of the infantry in the flatbeds and open-topped transports that followed the tanks were real. The exhaustion. The pain. The silent accusation on every face: _where were you when we were dying?_

It was all real. This was what victory looked like.

The commander keyed up his vox set again, finding the proper channel.

‘This is White Five to Control,’ he said. He paused.

He looked up at the vid-feed as the red-throated Vanquisher rolled past. The tank’s upper hatch was open and a tall woman stood on the fire-step, one hand on the grip of the pintle-mounted stubber. Half her gaunt face was bandaged, but her uncovered eye was piercing blue -- the blue of clear skies, untroubled by the wasteland that surrounded them or the horrors they had witnessed. The commander had seen eyes like that, seen them on troopers coming out of dead zones and battles whose records were sealed far above his grade of pay.

He couldn’t help but shiver.

‘It’s her,’ he continued. ‘It’s Cadair and her Hounds.’

* * *

**II - THE PRICE OF LOYALTY**

It wasn’t just the ducted heating that gave the small suite warmth. Muted reds and emberlike oranges flowed gently across the walls, cast from lighting panels beneath the insulative ‘skin’. Whether this was a deliberate design for the benefit of officers rotating back in from long, frigid deployments or something innate to the general staff’s taste in architecture was impossible to say. By accident or by purpose, it did the job.

Captain Ursula Cadair had just finished the last of what she could manage with the ruin of her hair. The bare few weeks since her makeshift regiment had stood down hadn’t been anything like enough time to repair the damage that crude razors, sweat, and months without proper hygiene had done to what once had been thick blonde curls.

She’d considered shaving her head entirely but decided against it. It gave the wrong sort of impression to her superiors. It wasn’t as though women struggled in the Astra Militarum. At least, not obviously. Nobody had ever said she wasn’t tough enough for the job.

Not to her face, anyway.

And, to be frank, it was her face that had kept her busy with comb and brush. Because while her hair might be salvageable, well - there was no hope for where the synth-skin had gone bad. It’d been a miracle, and unspoken favour, that the biologis had been able to save her eye. But unless she went in for full grafts - and that was well beyond the salary of a Militarum Captain - she’d wear the scars of this campaign for the rest of her life.

Cadair pursed her lips. The cracked tissue didn’t weep, which was good, because she didn’t want to apply fresh antiseptics. She didn’t dare a smile.

It wasn’t that she had ever been particularly vain. And it wasn’t as though the Imperium had suffered the loss of some great beauty. But it wasn’t _about_ that. It was…

It was about not being just another officer with a face full of scars and a voice that sounded like broken glass, grizzled and indistinguishable from all the others. It was about being one of the few women who’d made it not only to a command position but into the commander’s throne of one of the Imperium’s most well-regarded and venerable tanks. Cadair didn’t think of herself as special, or important, or unique.

She thought of herself as, well, herself.

And the face that looked back at her was different. Which meant that she was different, too, in ways she’d need time to discover.

The soft chime of glass from the attached kitchen brought Cadair back to the present. Each officer’s suite was fully furnished: a writing desk, wardrobe, campaign planner, and a proper bed. Along with a small kitchen, a shower station and lavatory were also attached - it was intended for ranking staff and their entourages, or military intelligence, or even special services like the Commissariat or Arbites if they needed to remain on-site for some time.

It was the closest thing to luxury Cadair had ever experienced, and she appreciated both the gesture and the time allowed to her for recovery - and seeing her mixed regiment properly billeted - before she was expected to debrief.

Now that the rebellion had been broken in its last hold-outs and Imperial forces were sweeping north entirely unopposed, command could afford to be patient - and generous - to the troopers who had won the hardest leg of the campaign close to single-handedly.

A woman in a spotless dress uniform, all black leather and gold frogging, emerged from the kitchen with a silver tray bearing a tall glass of rich, cool juice. Cadair winced at the sight of it. The properties of the ingredients that went into the concoction were, she had been informed, extremely efficient at encouraging a malnourished and wounded body back to full health. Slower than stims or other combat cocktails, but without the endless side-effects.

And disgusting. Like drinking engine coolant.

Cadair took the glass with poor grace. ‘Thanks, Sha.’

‘I believe we will be called to the General soon, ma’am. There was a messenger earlier.’

‘And you didn’t wake me?’ Cadair took a long swig of the horrible beverage. She’d been wrong. _Worse_ than engine coolant.

‘The chief medicae said you were not to be disturbed except by the General or in an emergency.’

‘So they don’t trust me to answer my door now, is that it?’

‘No insult was intended, ma’am.’

It surely hadn’t been. Cadair knew she was strung out. Snapping and growling like a kicked dog, not wanting to look weak in front of other soldiers. Throne, they’d done more, pushed harder than anyone else on the campaign. She had nothing to prove. Not to anyone.

But there's still those who’d judge her for walking out of the suite in her field khakis, the white-and-grey cold weather camouflage they’d all adopted, rather than her regimental dress. Particularly next to Sha’ian Martell, her adjunct, who looked as though she’d just stepped off a recruiting poster after modelling for the tailor. Not that her old formal would fit, anyway, with all the weight she’d lost up north…

Cadair rubbed at her good eye, the other plastered shut by a healing membrane. Throne, all she could think about was what she’d _lost_. Not what they’d gained. A rebellion crushed, a world brought back to the Imperium, distinguished service - and _selfishly_, here she was, wallowing in defeat.

‘I’m sorry, Sha,’ she managed, still not trusting her face to smile. ‘You’re right.’

‘You do not need to apologise, ma’am. I was there.’ The adjunct’s voice was fierce and low, and she took Cadair’s hand to give her words weight. ‘We went through together. All of us. You have nothing to be sorry for. Do not let them tell you otherwise.’

The shades of firelight from the walls cast Sha’s features into something that could have been angelic. Or, given the colour involved, the opposite.

The line between the two was so very thin at times.

With a low buzz, the internal vox set near the suite’s door sounded. The adjunct’s touch lingered a moment, then she was up, all trace of softness gone. Cadair wished she could flick the same switch and crush down all her unwanted feelings, but she hadn’t been raised in the same strict, regimented social structures as her aide, she hadn’t been forced to play the games of dissembling and prevarication. She was the armoured fist of the Astra Militarum, and subtlety was rarely a concern for a tank commander.

But Cadair knew full well the value of appearances - and how gossip spread in rear echelon positions like this. She set down the tall glass on the tray, half-finished, and rose to follow her aide to the door.

It slid open with a hiss to reveal a nervous-looking batman, a youth in the livery of the General’s staff. To his credit, he barely flinched at the sight of the battle-scarred Captain looming behind the well-groomed adjunct. Boys like him were often the sons of nobility or high command and would never see the front lines. They would gain ‘military experience’ while learning the etiquette of the Imperial upper-crust, forming friendships and banking favours for when they reached majority and took up positions of power.

Most were nothing but gophers and hangers-on, only noticed when they got underfoot of real soldiers. Cadair recognised him for what he was - and appreciated that it took at least a thimble of courage to step up to a line officer’s chambers and deliver news, good or ill.

‘Your purpose, sir,’ said Sha, in the tone of adjuncts the world over who - despite having the clear target of the message just behind her - would profess absolute ignorance of their location or even existence until they were satisfied it wouldn’t be a waste of time.

The boy had the good sense to straighten up. ‘Ma’am, I’m to convey the General’s invitation to Colonel Cadair.’

‘Very well. I shall see that she is informed. Let the General know we will arrive shortly.’

Ah,’ the boy hesitated but seeing the adjunct’s features harden, carried on before she toggled the door shut in his face. ‘The invitation is for the Colonel alone, ma’am.’

‘It is not a staff debriefing?’

‘It’s not my place to speculate, ma’am.’

Sha crossed her arms. Her eyes flinted. ‘We will go nowhere until the details of this invitation are confirmed. I did not expect this incompetence from central command.’ Her hand moved towards the wall toggle that would close the suite.

Being sent back for further instructions was one thing. It would have been humiliating, but bearable, and quickly forgotten in the day-to-day of life at a busy Imperial installation. But there was steel in the boy’s spine, or at least the determination not to look the fool in front of war-weary Astra Militarum troopers.

‘The staff have been dismissed for the day,’ he blurted out, and Sha stopped - but did not withdraw her hand. ‘It’s a private meeting. The strategium is empty, so it’s not happening there. I think-’ he swallowed, suddenly realising how he’d spilt his guts, but carried on. ‘-I think he wants to hear the real story of the Hounds, ma’am. Not a prepared statement.’ For the first time, he looked directly at Cadair. ‘We all do.’

Before her adjunct could lash him for his impropriety, Cadair laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Very well. Where am I headed?’

Relief washed over the boy’s features. ‘Fifth floor, east wing of this building, ma’am. I don’t know exactly where, but there’ll be a guide.’

‘Let them know I’m on my way.’

He clicked his heels and gave a parade-ground salute. ‘Ma’am.’

Cadair smiled. The synth-skin held. ‘Dismissed, then.’

The door closed as the boy turned smartly away. Sha looked back, her expression mirroring her superior’s own. ‘Congratulations, Colonel.’ The corners of her mouth turned down slightly, reflecting a worry - however small - that Cadair would be alone. ‘Be safe.’

* * *

**III - THE TAMING**

Central Command on Aureus Von was a sprawling complex of hangers, assembly fields, towers and bunkers. The building that contained Cadair’s suite was mostly given over to the housing of officers and their entourages, with identical rooms occupying most of the lower floors. There were public lounges and smoking rooms closer to the base, though Cadair’s injuries - and disinclination to mingle - had kept her from exploring any further. Similarly, the upper levels contained strategiums and briefing chambers, neither of which were the domain of the lower ranks.

There was one thing to be said about Imperial architecture: it would be familiar to anyone across the galaxy. You could take a trooper on a garrison in Sol and throw them into a pitched defence in Segmentum Obscura, and they’d have no trouble finding their way to the nearest armoury and getting into the fight.

Cadair climbed standardised stairs, checked standardised direction plaques, and nodded at the infrequent, standardised occupants of Central Command.

The fifth floor was different. It had the same clean lines, the same idea of suites and a similar floor-plan, but it wasn’t the same. Small, subtle bubbles of plastek belied remote surveillance. The halls were emptied, and the men and women present wore conspicuous sidearms and carefully blank expressions. Their eyes followed Cadair with no more emotion than those of a servitor.

A man in a heavy winter jacket and padded hat lounged incongruously against a nearby wall. He ignored the guards as though they were invisible; they ignored him as pointedly as a bad smell. A limp stick of lho hung from the corner of his mouth, unlit.

Cadair bore down on him. _Always look for the bored man._

‘I’m here at General Adus’ invitation, sir.’

She waited. The man stretched, winced as joints cracked. There was nothing of military discipline in him - he was an outsider, and barely tolerated at that. The guards at their key positions on the fifth floor took themselves seriously. Their duty was everything - they may have even been Tempestus Scions, the elite of the Astra Militarum - and as such, anyone who did not assume the same level of respect was instantly beneath their notice - but at just the right height for their contempt.

Maybe it was just paranoia. Maybe it was the months she’d spent sleeping in her tank, deep in enemy territory. Whatever it was, it gave Cadair a battle-fresh perception. The slovenly man was likely the most dangerous person on the floor.

Jewelled rings glittered from his fingers, distracting from the faintest lines of a pistol tucked at his waist beneath the heavy coat. The edges were polished - and lethally sharp. His boots were thick-soled, but thicker than necessary by a good half-inch, and Cadair didn’t believe that a man prepared to carry lethal weapons into a military command complex had worn them out of ego. The stretching, the lidding of his sleepy eyes, all designed to allow him to consider her -- much as she was considering him, two predators warily circling.

‘Colonel Cadair,’ he said, voice pitched low. The nearby guards strained to listen in without appearing to do so. The effect would have been comedic if it didn’t have the hint of baiting to it. ‘Glad to meet you.’

‘I would extend the same pleasure, sir…?’

He waved a hand, the jewels catching the low lumens. ‘Later, later. Adus is a busy man.’

The man paused a moment to see if the rudeness would register. Whether he was pleased with the lack of response or not, he beckoned Cadair after him down a side hall.

It wasn’t a long walk, but it was empty of the omnipresent guardians that had occupied the foyer. The bubble-fronted recorders were also missing. The General’s private quarters were exactly that - private. Whatever guests he invited would be known only to the Imperial commander, as would their purpose. Strategy on a campaign level often involved the many arms of the Imperium -- the Mechanicus for technological expertise, the Chartist Captains for ship movement and Warp travel, the Ecclesiarchy, of course, for spiritual guidance.

But other bodies needed to be consulted for various matters. Less-known, but vastly powerful. And they did not like to be captured on pict or vid.

Cadair glanced at the man again. Was he an interrogator, an instrument of an Inquisitorial retinue? An operator from military intelligence? Or something darker than that, something that lurked only in rumour at the fringes of the Militarum? She looked away. In this, she and the fresh-faced boy were as equals: it wasn’t their place to speculate.

An entirely unmarked and unremarkable wood-panelled door opened as they approached, swinging inwards by itself. There was nobody visible - it had been activated from within the room beyond, invisible beyond the curtain of light the hallway lumens provided.

‘Go on through,’ the man said, turning away, but not making to leave. He’d be waiting for her when she was finished.

The General’s suite contained little. A grand desk littered with papers, folders spilling picts and documents, stood in front of a window that spanned the entire rear wall. The sky was even poorer than its usual threatening grey - dark thunderheads rolled on through the murk, backlit by the far-off lightning that would soon reach central command. It was an ominous setting, made more so by the hulking figure that occupied the chamber’s sole chair.

Adus, dressed in simple Munitorum robes rather than his dress uniform, resembled a shar-bear lurking in its cave. He was a huge man even sitting - fresh soldiers from backwater regiments had been known to ask, in awe, if Adus was one of the legendary Space Marines come to lead them to glory.

He did little to quash these rumours. ‘At ease, Colonel,’ he rumbled. ‘I’d offer you a chair, but I prefer to keep things simple.’

Simple. Ah. And short, presumably.

‘You know why I’ve called you here.’ No more words were forthcoming. The General wanted to hear the understanding from Cadair’s own mouth.

‘The combined regiment, sir. The Hounds can’t stay as they are.’

General Adus leafed through a sheaf of paper on his grand desk, coming up with a somewhat tattered piece of vellum. ‘The Hounds. Was that your doing?’

‘We… adopted the local legend, sir. The rebels had started to call us that. It scared them. So we took it to heart.’

Local mythology held that the Emperor had come to the planet during his great Crusade, and found an evil in the deep northern forests - hundreds upon hundreds of kilometres of a wooded wasteland. The evil had been there a long time, so the legend ran, and was old and canny - it knew that the Emperor could not remain forever to pursue it, so it hid away as the Emperor and his war party came north.

Such was the evil’s wit that the expedition proved fruitless. Exhausted, the war party took their rest at a miller’s cottage deep in the north. Chambered there were canids of fine stock, gene-lines that could be traced back to Terra itself. The Emperor asked the miller for their use, and with the aid of these beasts, he tracked the evil down and destroyed it.

When the canids were returned, their brown fur had turned a ghostly, striped white. They no longer raised an alarm at passers-by; they were almost entirely silent, but when the miller approached them they still recognised him as their master and allowed him to stroke their spectral fur.

When the Emperor departed, the hounds remained and served the miller well until his dying day - upon which they gave up one great, mournful howl and departed into the forest’s depths, where the legends said they remained to the modern-day, hunting evil. The Hounds of Annwn.

Cadair had caught wind of the local tales at a particular hamlet and ordered her tanks painted with new camouflage that would prey on the superstitious dread of the northern rebels. It wasn’t standard, it wasn’t something you’d find in the field manual, but it had proven effective - and that was all that was necessary to be adopted wholesale.

‘Practical,’ the General’s voice made the word seem a condemnation all by itself. ‘As was the combination of the Dragoons with the remnants of the Kalbourn Rifles.’

‘Yes, sir. There was no way to keep the Kalbourn on the field without transportation.’

‘And the Dragoons required infantry support to clear mines and ambushes for their tanks.’

‘As you say, sir.’

‘I am not here to quote the Tactica Imperialis at you, Cadair. We are both aware of the strict separation of armed regiments. I am not here to enforce doctrine in situations where it cannot be done. I am here for results.’

The hangman question, though it was not phrased as such. Cadair’s blood chilled. ‘And… were you satisfied, sir?’

The General spilt out several picts upon his desk. He beckoned Cadair closer.

They were an installation of horror. Cratered buildings that still bled smoke, the ruins of what had been a hamlet. Another hamlet where no damage was visible, but the lack of population was obvious. A low-view of pits filled with bloated bodies. A naked, stick-thin woman whose eyes bulged with terror as she raised a hand to fend off a flashlight.

Atrocity after atrocity. And in nearly every picture, either the tell-tale tracks of Leman Russ tanks or the lighter gouges of Chimera transports.

‘Completely satisfied.’

Relieved, Cadair’s shoulders untensed. ‘Then... we can return to duty, sir?’

‘Not a chance. The Kalbourn lost more than eighty per cent of their manpower. They don’t exist as a regiment any more. As for your Dragoons, there are going to be serious questions about this-’ he gestured to the picts, ‘-once Imperial forces occupy the north again.’

‘What of the Rite of Conquest, sir? Will the Kalbourn be repatriated, or settled here again? What about my tankers?’

The General leaned back, folded his hands. It was the first emotive movement he’d made since Cadair had entered the room. ‘Normally, yes, that would be optimal. But the Kalbourn are… battle-damaged. You won us the campaign, Cadair, but you put an edge on the Kalbourn that cuts both ways. They’re too dangerous to resettle. Throne, they’re too dangerous to muster out to other regiments. Even if it could be managed, there’s no guarantee there wouldn’t be reprisal killings. That leaves one recourse.’

‘The Commissariat.’

Adus nodded. ‘Yes. They’d be brought in by platoon. I’d ask you to facilitate that.’

‘Absolutely not, sir.’ Cadair’s fists balled of their own accord. ‘I won’t-’

‘And you won’t have to. It’s a hypothetical. There is a cleaner solution. To be clear, Colonel, your work in the north was exemplary. Those hamlets had to be purged. Burning the food stores crippled the rebellion beyond recovery. Forced to chase you on empty stomachs - they lost more to starvation and desertion than to your force, and you know as well as I do what that means.’

‘But?’

‘But not everyone sees this as I do. This campaign needed a hero. You and the so-called Hounds are that Cadair, make no mistake. I can suppress most of this, and assure you that nobody will dig any deeper than they need to. But that’s conditional. The Commissariat needs a scalp.’

‘And they want mine.’

‘They’ll settle for a discharge without prejudice. In their eyes, the regiments involved cannot be deployed again in the Astra Militarum.’

‘Sir, with respect, you’ve laid out why that wouldn’t be feasible. We…’ she swallowed. ‘We can’t go home, can we, sir?’

‘No. But I can put you in a position to continue your service to the Throne. It’s unorthodox, but it satisfies all parties, and I believe it’s what you and your men would benefit most from - as would the sub-sector campaign.’

The General slid a dataslate across the table. Cadair took it in hands that refused to keep still. The text was dense and at a scan yielded numbers as well as High Gothic. Cadair hadn’t come from high society, but she could recognise what it was. A bill of sale, and a guarantee of third-party supply for a mixed force of armour and infantry.

A contract, signed by Imperial Command and a Rogue Trader.

Cadair’s mind made the connection without effort. The strange man with his unlit lho, probably lounging outside even now. An agent. Or…

‘This campaign is a mess,’ the General continued. ‘We’re stalled on multiple fronts. Under the Maledictum’s light, fires are starting faster than we can put them out. A mobile force with enough punch to put down anything below a proper Archenemy push - able to get anywhere they needed to, without cutting through an ocean of red tape - could be the medicine this sub-sector needs to right itself.’

‘I don’t know what to say, sir.’

‘As little as possible. You’ll be departing in two days. The official line is special operations. Behind the scenes, your discharge is already being processed.’ A pause. Adus leaned forward, coming into profile proper. Lightning lit the sky behind him. ‘Know this. This course of action would never have proposed if your loyalty was ever in question. You may see it as a betrayal. You may even see it as prostitution. Know that you and your men didn’t go cheap, Colonel. And that you may not be Guard, but we know you’ll continue to serve the Throne.’

Cadair knew dismissal when she heard it. She turned to leave.

She stopped a half-step before the door. ‘Is it always like this, sir?’ she asked. ‘In your place?’

‘I pray this is the hardest decision I’ll make today,’ Adus replied, the weariness fully entering into his voice. ‘It likely won’t be. Responsibility is a curse, Colonel. I pray you have the strength to endure it.’

And with that, the career of Ursula Cadair, Captain in the Wurldan Dragoons, ended with the click of a latch on the door that closed behind it. Seamlessly, with a few short steps towards a man with an unlit lho dangling from his quirked lips, the Hounds of Annwn came into being with a scarred Colonel and her bloody-mouthed Vanquisher prowling at their head.


End file.
